Courage Requires
by mrb2016
Summary: PREVIEW: A continuation of Courage Rises. The Darcys invite friends and family to Pemberley despite Elizabeth's difficult pregnancy. Now that Colonel Fitzwilliam and Sophia Hawke will reside in the same house over Christmas, will romance be allowed to bloom or will the Earl squash the relationship in fear of a scandal? (Chapter Twelve is not graphic, but might be "M"-nowhere else).
1. Author's Note and Prologue

**This book, under the same title, is now available for sale at Amazon. Amazon won't allow me to keep this up, but I will leave the first three chapters so you can see if you like it.**

 **Thanks, everyone!**

 **AN:** This is a companion piece to _Courage Rises_ , which is now available on Amazon. You probably want to read that one if you missed it being posted here last summer. You can still read the first three chapters here to see if you like it. You can also read _Courage Requires_ without the first book and probably muddle along okay, but there will be things that may confuse.

I am still writing this book, but have it outlined and have a good deal of it in decent shape, so I want to begin. I will not have a set posting schedule but posting here makes me work harder. I do have to say that posting may slow down in spots as I fill in details, realize an additional chapter is needed, etc. When I am finished, I will let you know how long it will stay up, as I intend to publish this as well and Amazon has rules about other copies available online.

The business end of things: The version you will have here may be altered, revised, developed, and so on when it is finally published. This work is based on Jane Austen's characters, but the work itself is mine-you may not use it yourself in any way. There is already a copyright.

As to reviews, I absolutely welcome your polite, kind constructive criticism, your praise (of course), and most of all, your ideas. Even if I don't use them, they get me thinking in new and different ways and are essential to my process (they give me ideas for future books, too!). I do proof my work before posting, but there are always errors to find, so if you see them, don't hesitate to point them out.

Please, if you only want to be upset about what I have written or haven't written, don't bother posting a review-take all that wonderful creative anger and write your own story-I promise to read it!

In the Prologue, we see a partial resolution to a theft in Courage Rises. Mr. Harrison, the new-ish Pemberley steward, has fled the estate, abandoning the Mistress after Elizabeth had in essence quarantined everyone, requiring them to remain at Pemberley and not even travel into town. To make good his escape, he had stolen a horse. Mr. Briggs, the Pemberley stable master (and his son Harry) are now on a journey to recover him. Horses were quite expensive, and horse thieves were hanged, so Harrison has good reason to disappear.

And on we go!

 **Prologue**

The sun was directly overhead as John Briggs pulled his horse to a stop. This was the fifth coaching inn he had visited in the past two days. This one was the smallest, though the stones were whitewashed and the roof tightly thatched. Across the road two young men were sliding crates of vegetables onto the back of a wagon, covering them with blankets, while the two mares hitched to the front gently tossed their tails to distract the flies accosting them.

John dismounted, removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead before tying up his mount and walking inside. His younger son Harry, tall and lanky at fourteen and feeling all the pride of being asked along on this ride, tied up his own steed and stood, sandy hair falling into his eyes and arms crossed over his thin chest, next to the post. _Nobody will dare approach the horses with such a guard_ , John thought fondly, as he replaced his hat and walked inside.

The inn was dark and cool inside, and John stood just inside the doorway for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. When he spied the innkeeper behind the bar, he strode over to take a seat, order a drink, and ask his questions. The innkeeper was a heavyset man of about fifty years with a florid complexion and a full head of gray hair that curled over his ears but otherwise fell straight, ending near his frayed collar. He remained silent until John reached the end of his speech.

"Chestnut stallion, white flash, seventeen hands. Taps his front foot twice if you offer a carrot. Would have been left maybe a month back. My master is anxious to have him returned, and will pay for your trouble."

The man's eyes narrowed. He leaned on the knuckles of his fists, bending his corpulent frame closer to John's face. His eyebrows were tufted, gray, too short for his wide-set, muddy brown eyes.

"How much?"

John flashed an austere smile. "Depends upon the condition of the beast. Do you have him?"

"Might." He eased himself back to a standing position and hollered for his wife. Once she arrived, flustered and issuing loud complaints over being summoned in such a way, the innkeeper ambled slowly towards the back of the building, exiting into courtyard. He crossed through the dusty yard to a small stable beyond. While the front of the building had been well tended, the stable was neglected. The thatch roof was beginning to separate on one side while the walls were haphazardly maintained. The whitewash had long ago begun to fade and long weeds sank their leafy tendrils into the chinks between the stones.

John tried not to show his disdain for the condition of the horses as they made their way past several stalls. He instead focused on what he might do to Isaac Harrison if he ever got his hands on the man, taking a grim satisfaction in devising his penance before admitting to himself that he would likely need to hand him over to the magistrate without exacting such punishment. It would be the master's wishes, not his own that would be followed, and Mr. Darcy upheld the law.

They reached the last stall. Tossing his head and snorting was Ares, looking every bit the member of nobility he was in this stable of worn out mares. He moved quickly into the stall to run his hands along Ares' forelocks, checking from knee to hock for swelling or soreness, each hoof for cracks or worn shoes. Then he stood to run the flats of his fingers lightly along the stallion's neck, withers, muscles, checked his eyes, his teeth. Finally, he pulled a carrot out of his pocket and held it directly in Ares' line of sight. The stallion neighed, bobbed his head, and gently tapped the ground twice with his front left hoof before John gently moved the treat from side to side, up and down, watching to see that Ares could follow without pain.

"Be 'ye done yet?" asked the innkeeper impatiently.

John rubbed Ares' nose and offered him the carrot. He had not been well fed and was a little thin. He could certainly use some grooming. Otherwise he appeared unharmed.

"Who left him here?"

"Didna' ask his name."

"Short man, bald, squat?"

"Nay. Young, dark, rough-looking."

"How long has he been here?"

"Month or so, like 'ya say."

John frowned. The man could not be trusted, he thought, but for all that John believed him to be telling the truth about who had brought the horse here, though perhaps not when. Harrison might have sold the horse or had it taken before he arrived. After he was sure Ares was finished with the carrot, John began to fit him out for return to Pemberley. When he was finished, he tossed a few guineas to the man who grunted.

"Had to feed 'em an all."

"You have not fed him much," was John's retort, though the horse had been watered well. He flipped the man a few additional shillings, and threw him a look that said clearly enough there would be no more. He believed the stallion had been abandoned, not sold. The innkeeper had clearly been hoping for better but was wise enough not to complain. He shuffled back off to his wife as John spoke softly to Ares and began to lead him outside.

Harry was still standing next to the horses at the front of the inn, doing his best to appear fierce and unapproachable. His face lit up like a child's when his father walked Ares around the far side of the inn.

"You found him!" he cried, his eyes alight with pleasure for a brief moment before he reigned in his emotions by crossing his arms over his chest and offering a curt nod. "I knew you would. Is he well, father?"

"He is, though he will require some additional care once we get him home," John replied, trying not to laugh. He was pleased, very pleased, to recover Ares, and his son's face had reminded him in a sudden flash of cheerful memory holidays past, when both boys were small and his wife still alive. He well recalled being his son's age, not young enough to be a boy, not old enough to be a man, and he felt some sympathy for Harry's predicament. "Do you think you could take that on?"

Harry drew himself up to his full height. "I could," he said, sounding confident. "Thank you, father." He scratched Ares between his ears and stroked his long neck. The stallion gazed at the boy languidly and swished his tail from side to side.

"We must visit the magistrate before we depart, Harry, but let us make a start, shall we? I should like to eat my dinner at home tomorrow."

Harry grinned. "Aye, father," he agreed. "So would I."


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

An opened bottle of fine brandy sat on the table in Fitzwilliam Darcy's study, the amber liquor sparkling in the candlelight.

"That is quite a story, Richard," Fitzwilliam Darcy said thoughtfully. He handed his cousin a second drink and sat on a leather chair near the fire, stretching his long legs before him. "Almost worth the length of time you have made me wait to hear it."

It had been a week since Charles and Jane had returned to London. Though it was early yet, he suspected they would spend Christmas at Netherfield with the Bennets. He and Charles had identified an estate available for purchase about thirty miles from Pemberley, close to the Staffordshire border but a bit north of Darlington, and would need to begin the process of negotiating the sale. It would be a complicated purchase with the added potential of increasing the land holdings, and Charles would need to be in London over the next months to see to that business. Should his negotiations be successful, he would then need to give up the lease on Netherfield, have the servants close up the house, and complete any remaining responsibilities to the property and the neighborhood. They would be busy at least until the spring, but both he and his wife were looking forward to having the Bingleys residing within a half day's travel by the summer. He knew Elizabeth was hoping for some news from her sister. She was certain that they would raise their children together.

Richard shrugged. "We were each of us occupied, and it is not the sort of thing one should commit to paper." He paused and ducked his head. "I must admit that I was waiting for the Bingleys to remove to town. For everyone concerned, this truly ought to remain between us."

"I am afraid," Darcy said quietly, "I have made a rather specific promise to tell Elizabeth everything. Particularly if the Hawkes are to visit Pemberley with the Earl for the festive season."

Richard thought about this for a moment. While Darcy should have informed him of such an agreement before allowing him to tell the story, he had rather suspected that Darcy would hide nothing from Elizabeth. Fortunately, she could keep a secret. Even before Elizabeth became a Darcy, she had been entrusted with the most damaging secret they owned.

"Of course. No farther, though. Not even Mrs. Bingley or Georgiana, if you please. The fewer who know, the better chance of this all fading away in time."

"Agreed." Darcy took a drink and looked down at the dark liquid in his glass. He tipped it back and forth before saying in a low voice, "I am sorry we left you to handle the carriage ride alone."

Richard held up his hand, palm out, from his own seat near the fire. "You could hardly have acted other than you did. In any case, I am pleased you were not there."

"That seems to be a common refrain," Darcy replied sardonically, but with a hint of complaint in his tone. "Elizabeth was pleased I was not here to keep her from having her way, and you are pleased I was not with you to assist. Am I truly so useless to have near?"

Richard chuckled. "There was no point. More heads, more targets. All I did was ride inside a box, if you can call being tossed about riding. I never got a shot off."

"Did Captain Hawke?" They laughed lightly together, trying to ease the tension of the conversation while Richard shook his head.

"No, and that is one reason I cannot fault myself. If even the Captain could not discharge a weapon, what hope had I?" His face turned suddenly serious, and he stood to grope for something in the pocket of his greatcoat which he had draped unceremoniously over a high-backed chair. James and then Wilkins had both been rather disconcerted to be waved off when he arrived. Richard felt the fabric and clenched his fist around it for a moment before withdrawing it. He tossed it in his cousin's lap.

"Miss Hawke asked me to get rid of it when we arrived at Matlock. Her sister was upset by it but would not stop taking it out to have a look. I am finding myself in much the same predicament."

Darcy set down his drink to pick up the crumpled remains of a bonnet. It showed deep creases from being carried in such a way, but he could distinctly make out two round holes at the crown.

"Good God, Richard," he whispered. He cleared his throat and spoke with more volume. "You told me, but seeing it. . . "

"You understand my dilemma. The story alone does not carry the same impact. I had thought to toss it in the fire, as it makes me ill to see it." Richard grimaced, torn. "But it is also evidence, of a sort, that exonerates Miss Hawke from accusations of collaboration."

Richard closed his eyes and remembered Sophia Hawke's resignation as she comforted her sister on the carriage floor, the stunningly emotional welcome the Earl had proffered when she made her unexpected appearance, and her strangely cool response to that display. It was as though she did not believe it genuine. Richard had no doubt it had been real, yet within days, Lord Matlock was again scheming and planning. Lady Matlock, on the other hand, had been thrilled to have two young women in the house to spoil. Miss Evelyn had quite taken to it, but he thought his mother might have forged a stronger bond with Miss Hawke, who seemed rather overwhelmed by the attention. His cousin's voice drew him back to the matter at hand.

Darcy considered this statement. "Circumstantial at best, Richard. Should someone be determined to doubt, there would be no way to prove it was hers, or even if it were that she was wearing it when the damage was done. No way to prove it was her uncle who hired the man to ambush you. Most would deny that Hawke would even take such a risk, particularly knowing that you were all under the Earl's protection."

Richard closed his eyes. "I am aware, William. Still, with my testimony and that of the men riding with us, it might mean _something_. Hobson saw it at the same time as I." He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I cannot take the risk of burning the damn thing."

"Well," Darcy said stretching out his hand to return the article to his cousin, "put it away before my wife enters and inquires why we are looking at a woman's bonnet in my study."

Richard grinned. "Does Elizabeth often come to your study at this time of night, cousin? Are the sweet first moments of your marriage over so quickly that she must seek you here to induce you to retire?"

Darcy shook his head and stood, setting his half-full glass on a side table. "And with that, Richard, I shall leave you to it. When do you head back to London?"

"End of the week." He smiled tightly, and added, "Thank you for hosting me. I am unlikely to leave London again until I return to Pemberley at the end of the year, presuming I am still invited."

"You have decided irrevocably, then?" Darcy's chest grew tight. He knew that Richard was his own man, that he felt at home in the army. Still, the last time they had spoken of it, Richard had been considering resigning his commission. It had given him hope.

Richard heard the pain in Darcy's voice and tried to assuage the blow. "I have. I went to the general to discuss selling my commission, and he was not best pleased. He argued rather vociferously that there were offices I might perform from London to assist in our efforts. There is some worth in my old carcass yet, evidently, even if it is only to train recruits and write reports that go unread." He reached for Darcy's unfinished drink. "The general has assured me that I will not be sent abroad. I told him I would not lead men into battle. Not feeling as I do now." As he finished Darcy's brandy, he stood. He did not look at his cousin _._

"You are always welcome, Richard. I think you know as much," was Darcy's quiet reply.

Darcy was relieved to hear that Richard would not return to the Continent, but he was certain that should he be requested to return to battle, his cousin would not shirk what he saw as his duty. _He has to leave the army_ , Darcy thought unhappily. The only way to keep him truly safe would be for him to resign everything and move into the life of a gentleman. A life Richard could have for the asking, if only he would set aside his pride and make the request. Between Richard's own investments and the support both he and the Earl had promised, they would situate Richard well. Richard had argued that the money was Phillip's, but while his older brother could be thoroughly pompous when playing the role of a Viscount, he loved Richard enough that he would offer no protest against the expense.

Darcy grimaced. He was in no position to argue about unnecessary pride and they both knew it. He turned to the door after wishing his cousin a good night. He felt exhausted from his constant worrying over Georgiana and Elizabeth, and now he was concerned again for Richard, just when he had thought he could put that fear to rest. As he stepped into the hall and made his way to the stairs, Darcy felt an icy lump settle in his stomach. He was not certain how much more worry he could stand.


	3. Chapter Two

_**AN: I am hoping for some reviews-hope, hope, hope...**_

 **Chapter Two**

Elizabeth Darcy stared at the ceiling in her chambers and tried not to move. She had finally found a position that did not make her stomach clench and roll, and if she remained perfectly still, there was a chance she might not be ill this morning. Next to her, lying on his stomach with his face turned towards her was her husband, whose relaxed features and soft snores made her smile. He had grown more anxious about her every day, more so now because she was long past the time Mr. Waters had suggested would mark the end of this constant nausea. The local midwife simply harrumphed at such pronouncements. Mr. Waters was a man, after all, nothing more than an apothecary, and should not have presumed to make such a statement. She would not hear that he had only offered Mrs. Darcy some general assurances but had indeed been wise enough not to make promises.

"The worse 'ya feel," the heavyset woman had said with an unsympathetic cluck and a toss of her head, "the healthier the child." Elizabeth could have wept at that breezy dismissal of her misery, but she had decided to be angry instead. She wanted to eat, truly she did, but even when she could manage to force something down, it did not stay down for long. She was nearly desperate to eat something other than broth, but nobody seemed to be able to help. The ginger biscuits Mrs. Cronk sent up had no effect, the peppermint tea was useless. Fitzwilliam, in his deepening anxiety, had dismissed the midwife altogether in favor of seeking out an accoucheur, who also had little of help to offer other than going through the menus for foods that might trigger her illness. As she was not eating much, it seemed a useless exercise. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something other than how very sick she felt, how sore her stomach and back muscles were, how the ceiling swirled relentlessly after every attack. One morning feeling well. One walk in the garden without dizziness or concern about casting up her accounts. Was it so much to ask? _This had best be the healthiest child in the kingdom_ , she thought with irritation, holding her limbs rigidly in place.

As she lay unmoving on the bed, Elizabeth could hear the vague sounds of the house coming to life. The soft footfalls in the hallway, the gentle murmuring of voices, the slow opening of the chamber door as a servant entered to tend the fire. After a wet summer, the harvest months had been mercifully dry and mild, but the days had begun to grow cooler at last. The day before, resting in the garden trying to find a comfortable way to be outside, she had noted the men coming in from the orchards and walking the paths across the meadow. They carried large sacks of what she knew must be the last of the apples, and she had thought how wonderful apple cider might taste. Later, she realized she would not be able to abide it, but she was still thinking about the harvest at Longbourn and what a wonderful time of year this was. She only wished she could enjoy it more if for no other reason that she would like her sweet, doting, aggravating husband to worry a little less about her.

Cautiously, she breathed in and then out. She still felt fine. Slowly, she established a calm rhythm and opened her eyes. There was gentle pressure on her hand, and she turned her head very carefully to see Fitzwilliam watching her.

"Are you well, Elizabeth?" he asked, his fingers lacing with hers as he leaned just a little closer.

"As long as I do not move, William," she replied stiffly. The anticipation faded, and while very few people would have said that he looked any different, Elizabeth could see his face fall. Every morning he woke hoping she would feel herself, and each morning he was disappointed. He attempted to hide it, but she could read him too well. It was an added burden, his anxiety, but it was impossible to disguise her suffering.

"It is temporary, love," she said, forcing the words to sound encouraging. "It will pass."

"You need not reassure me, my dear. Just inform me if there is anything I can do to help." Fitzwilliam shifted, leaning over her to brush a soft kiss on her cheek. As he pulled away, Elizabeth felt the bile begin to rise again. She rolled away from her husband with a moan, grabbed the pail sitting on the floor next to the bed, and was ill.

Darcy placed a hand lightly on his wife's back as she bent over the side of the bed retching. When she was finished, he helped her settle back onto her pillows. In a practice that had become routine, he made her comfortable before rising to walk around the bed and remove the bucket. He placed it out in the hall. Then he picked up the one that had been placed near the door, clean and empty, to set in its place. He moved away to wash his hands, though the water in the basin was cold. Finally, he poured his wife a glass of water from a pitcher on a side table and sat next to her. He brought the drink to her lips carefully, tipping it a little to help her sip.

He had been away when his sister was ill in the summer, arriving home just in time for his wife to begin showing indications that she was with child. Four months along now, nearly five, and she was still ill, more so now even than the earlier months. Mr. Waters had little of help to offer, and the midwife had made Elizabeth even more wretched than she had been before the visit. The babe seemed to be progressing well, Elizabeth's abdomen clearly rounded and growing, but she had not gained any weight. Instead, all the weight that had settled on her abdomen seemed to come from somewhere else on her body. Her face was thinner than he had ever seen it, and she was unsteady when she walked. The intense relief he had felt upon arriving home to learn that she and Georgiana were both well had slowly given way to a paralyzing panic. Elizabeth might not be strong enough to survive the birth if she could not eat. He could barely stand to be away from her, but she insisted he tend to the estate, and because his loving concern and incessant hovering were all he had to offer, he reluctantly did as she asked. When she rose from her bed late each morning, she allowed a footman to assist her on the stairs and sat in the drawing or music rooms for a few hours just for a change of scene. She rarely appeared at the dinner table and had not walked in ages. Her easy agreement to being attended by a footman wherever she went alarmed him nearly as much as any of her other symptoms.

"You will feel improved soon, my love. I am sure of it," he said reassuringly, stroking her hair.

"William," she said in a breathy voice, exhausted.

"Yes, love?" Fitzwilliam asked, kissing her hand.

"If we ever want another child," she said faintly, though her eyes sparkled just a bit, "I must insist we find one to adopt."


End file.
